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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941726">In the Sparkling of an Eye</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolan_Ivey/pseuds/Darragh_Cross'>Darragh_Cross (Carolan_Ivey)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Birthday, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Dadkov, Lilimom, Loneliness, M/M, Nikimetti-ish but not really, Past Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Pre-Canon, Rumors, Younger Christophe Giacometti, Yuuri is literally a twinkle in Victor's eye, pre-Victuuri, younger victor nikiforov - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:42:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolan_Ivey/pseuds/Darragh_Cross</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor makes an effort to thank everyone as Lilia tows him away from the post-exhibition, meet-and-greet crowd, but his feet drag to a stop when he spots Yakov near the entry. Beside him is a familiar face, attached to a long, lean body lounging lazily against the door jamb. Emerald-green eyes beam at him from under a bleach-blond fringe. </p><p><i>“Christophe.”</i> </p><p>Lilia leans in close and gives him a gentle shove in the Swiss skater’s direction. “Happy birthday, Vitya,” she murmurs quietly, a smile in her voice. “Now go. Get laid.”</p><p>-----</p><p>Another Russian nationals gold, another non-birthday for Victor. Until an old friend shows up bearing gifts.</p><p>A Yuri!!! on ICE prequel short story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>18OI Secret Santa Holiday E-card Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In the Sparkling of an Eye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/takeitoffhemmo/gifts">takeitoffhemmo</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for @takeitoffhemmo the 18+!!! on ICE Discord server's Secret Santa gift exchange. Happy holidays!</p><p>Thank you, @QuagmireMarch for the beta read. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>12 January 2005 </em><br/>
<em>European Championships, Palais de Sports, Lyon, France </em></p><p>Fifteen-year-old Christophe Giacometti has been on the edge of his seat since Victor Nikiforov stepped out from behind the backstage curtains, preparing to take his turn on the ice.</p><p>“Sit back before you fall over the railing,” chides his coach, Josef Karpisek, more amused than annoyed.</p><p>Chris ignores him, though he should be kissing Josef’s feet for bringing him along to get a taste of the glorious, glittery chaos of Euros before he ages into the senior division.</p><p>This is <em>Victor Nikiforov</em>, the rival Chris chased through the junior ranks, who’s effortlessly dominating the competition in just his second senior season. The competitor Chris has always admired—maybe even crushed on a little bit.</p><p>To be completely honest, he’s not sure Victor even knows his name.</p><p>The Russian has always seemed untouchable, wrapped in a cloud of ethereal beauty. Eyes sparkling and determined but a little lost, and turned inward as if shielding himself from the outside world. Standing a step or two below him on podium after junior podium, Chris had to fight the urge to reach out and hold the boy’s slender, delicate hand. If only to let him know he didn’t have to be alone.</p><p>Finally, <em>finally,</em> Victor steps onto the ice, a vision of perfection in a costume that could be blue or purple depending on how the arena lights hit it, platinum ponytail swinging halfway down his back. For the next four-and-a-half minutes, Chris forgets to breathe.</p><p>Josef laughs quietly as Victor strikes his finishing pose and Chris gasps, peeling his fingers from the railing to applaud along with six thousand other fans packing the arena. He claps so hard his hands sting. As Victor takes a bow and skates toward the gate—toward <em> Chris—</em>scooping up an armful of roses and stuffed poodles along the way, Chris’s heart climbs into his throat.</p><p>“Victor! Congratulations!” Wait, what? Who just shouted at his idol with that embarrassing, adolescent crack in his voice?</p><p>
 <em>Oh. That would be me. </em>
</p><p>Incredibly, out of the thousands of voices screaming his name, Victor hears that humiliating squeak. The smile that spreads across that porcelain face looks genuine, almost as if recognizing a friend.</p><p>“What’s your name?” Victor calls.</p><p>Well, that answers <em>that</em> question. Chris is too breathless to care.</p><p>“C-Christophe Giacometti!”</p><p>Victor, his long fingers pink and a little chapped from the arena’s chill, selects a plastic-wrapped rose from the mass in his arms. “Okay, Chris!” He tosses the flower in Chris’s direction. “See you at Worlds!”</p><p>Chris clasps the rose to his chest, eyes wide, afraid to blink lest he miss a split second of this moment. All he can do is nod and respond, less-than-brilliantly, “Yeah!”</p>
<hr/><p><em>25 December 2010 </em><br/>
<em>Russian National Championships Post-Exhibition Banquet, Sochi</em></p><p>Victor doesn’t often miss his long hair. Only in situations like this, when he’s too tired to socialize, but expected to make an appearance to schmooze with sponsors and chat up the Russian Skating Federation’s powers that be. With no strategically draped, platinum curtain to mask his boredom, his smile must never falter.</p><p>He reaches up to nervously finger the precision-trimmed hair at the back of his neck, only to catch Lilia Baranovskaya’s raised eyebrow and quickly lower his hand. Lilia’s students do not fidget. Ever.</p><p>All he wants to do is go home to Saint Petersburg, put his comfiest clothes on his bruised limbs, his softest socks on his sore feet, and snuggle with his poodle, Makkachin. But no, he’s enduring another banquet with hotel food he can't eat, responding to toasts with cheap champagne he doesn't want.</p><p>No one wishes him a happy birthday, much less a Merry Christmas, a non-holiday in Russia. Yakov and Lilia already took him out for his annual birthday breakfast this morning. They’d been unusually quiet this time, exchanging looks that could have meant they were sharing a secret, flirting (gross), or having a wordless argument.</p><p>“Vitya. Stand up straight,” Lilia hisses from behind her own glass.</p><p>“<em>Da</em>, madame.” Years of conditioned response to her discipline at the barre has him automatically arrowing his spine and straightening his fatigue-slouched shoulders. He glances around and notices a distinct absence in the crowd milling around him.</p><p>“Where’s Yakov?”</p><p>Lilia’s eyes dart sideways as she takes a sip of champagne, then frowns at it as if it personally offended her. “Toilet, I think. He’ll be back.”</p><p>His suspicions mount as she surreptitiously checks her diamond wrist watch, then cranes her neck around a clump of suits to look toward the main double doors. “Looking for someone?”</p><p>"What?" Her gaze snaps back to his, with a look he’s never seen on her face before. Feigned innocence, followed by a curl of her blood-red-painted lips. “Oh, no.”</p><p>For several minutes he’s drawn into another round of requests to examine his medal, to join this RSF official or that sponsor in a photograph. Handshakes. Autographs. Hidden gropes to his backside that he laughs off while his skin crawls. The offenders hurriedly back off at Lilia’s icy glare.</p><p>Suddenly, Lilia’s gaze zeroes in on the door. Her expression brightening, she deposits her glass on the nearest table and sweeps in to take Victor’s elbow, effectively ending the meet-and-greet. “Excuse us, ladies, gentlemen,” she says smoothly. “But Victor has an early flight tomorrow. I’m sure you understand.”</p><p>Victor makes an effort to thank everyone as Lilia tows him away from the crowd, but his feet drag to a stop when he spots Yakov near the entry. Yakov. Smiling. That's...odd. Beside him is a familiar face, attached to a long, lean body lounging against the door jamb. Emerald-green eyes beam at him from under bleach-blond fringe.</p><p>“<em>Christophe</em>.”</p><p>Lilia leans in close and gives him a gentle shove in the Swiss skater’s direction. “Happy birthday,” she murmurs quietly, a smile in her voice. “Now go. Get laid.”</p><p>Victor chokes and succeeds in spilling the glass he was in the process of setting on an abandoned table. “<em>Lilia!</em>”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “I’m old, Vitya, not dead. We’ve rescheduled your flight home and extended your hotel reservation so you’ll have plenty of time. Yakov and I will take care of Makkachin. Now go and have some fun. You deserve it. Just,” she waves a beringed hand, “don’t eat yourself sick. And don’t get arrested.”</p><p>She squawks in surprise when Victor throws his arms around the rail-thin prima and gives her a resounding kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Lilia,” he whispers, too overcome to trust his voice.</p><p>She laughs. “Get out of here, <em>kroshka.</em>”</p><p>All eyes follow him and whispered rumors blizzard around the room as Victor practically runs toward Chris, pausing just long enough to give Yakov's shoulder a grateful squeeze. The old man pats his hand, then Victor and Chris are racing for the hotel elevators.</p><p>“How did you…? When?” Victor switches seamlessly to the French they speak when they get together.</p><p>“Shh. Wait.” Christophe puts a finger to his lips until the elevator doors close, shutting them away from dozens of curious pairs of eyes. Then he opens his arms, and Victor walks into them, locking them together in a tight hug. “Oof!” Chris laughs. “Miss me?”</p><p>“Desperately,” Victor muffles dramatically into Chris's shoulder. Then he draws back to get a better look at his friend, who somehow always manages to look high fashion, devastatingly sexy, and understated all at the same time. “Congratulations on your Swiss championship. If I’d  known you were coming, I’d have been prepared to celebrate.”</p><p>Chris grins. “Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything. It’s your birthday, after all.”</p><p>The elevator opens on the top floor, and the two of them peer cautiously up and down the hallway before exiting. They’re both well aware of the rumors surrounding their relationship that began circulating almost from the moment Chris entered the senior division. When questioned, they give non-answers veiled in mysterious smiles. But they’ve always scrupulously avoided being seen entering a hotel room together.</p><p>Victor sighs in relief. The corridor appears empty. He grabs Chris’s hand and tows him toward his room, only to pause outside the door. “Wait, where’s your room?”</p><p>Chris grins wider. “Yakov and Lilia said I'm bunking with you.”</p><p>Victor’s blush burns his face as he slides the keycard into the slot. “We should probably tell them.”</p><p>“Why?” Chris’s voice takes on that lazy, sexy drawl that just makes Victor snicker. “Faking a forbidden romance between rivals is way more fun.”</p><p>They’re both giggling as they close the door behind them. Chris flips on the overhead light, the corners of his eyes crinkled with mischief.</p><p>“Oh. My. God.” Victor gasps at the sight before him. Chris’s suitcase is already open on the bed, a variety of goodies strewn across the duvet. A selection of Swiss cheeses, slightly squashed artisan bread, wine, <em>good</em> champagne already on ice, chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate, Christmas cookies, and snacks Victor can’t get in Russia, much less allow himself to eat during competition season. He pounces on a red tube labeled <em>Le Parfait</em>, twists off the cap, and squirts a glob of the pâté directly into his mouth.</p><p>Chris winces. “Blech! At least spread it on some bread first!”</p><p>Victor mashes it around in his mouth and swallows, moaning in a way that, if they <em>were</em> dating, would definitely tighten Chris's pants. “I couldn’t wait. What else is there?” Victor pokes through the pile with a child-like glee that makes Chris smile. “Is that brötli?”</p><p>“It is,” says Chris, smacking Victor’s hand away from the plastic container of flaky pastries. “But that’s from my mother and it’s for breakfast tomorrow.”</p><p>Victor pouts and grabs the bread instead. Tearing open the packaging, takes a huge bite then falls backward on the bed. Then, squirting more of the pâté into his mouth, he closes his eyes and chews the combination with a sigh of contentment.</p><p>“Classy,” Chris laughs, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it up in the closet.</p><p>Victor mumbles an unintelligible reply around the mouthful of bread and meat. He opens his eyes to find Chris watching him with a fond smile as he loosens his tie.</p><p>“So,” says Chris. “I take it you don’t want to go out for your birthday?”</p><p>Victor swallows the food he’s savored into submission and shakes his head. “I’m done peopling today.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” Chris gets to work on his shirt buttons with one hand, stepping up to the bed and holding out the other toward Victor. “Is there a hot tub in this suite?”</p><p>“I’m not a barbarian.” Victor takes the offered hand and lets Chris pull him to his feet.</p><p>“Good.” Chris heads for the bathroom, dropping clothes in his wake. “Get the champagne.”</p><p>Victor gasps in delight, pulling at his own tie and practically skipping after his rapidly nudifying friend. “Hot tub gossip <em>with champagne</em>? It really <em>is</em> my birthday!”</p><p>“You’re welcome!” Chris says gaily he twists the taps on the gigantic tub.</p>
<hr/><p>Chris takes a moment to admire his handiwork.</p><p>The Victor he’d spied across the hotel banquet hall had been pale, drawn, eyes dull with boredom and an aching loneliness that made Chris’s heart hurt.</p><p>The Viktor curled up on the bed beside him now is wrapped in a thick hotel robe, fair skin rosy from the hot tub, cheeks stuffed full of Swiss chocolate, and a glass of decent champagne in one hand. Those ice-blue eyes, though blinking with sleepy contentment, are still missing something. Something Chris figured out a long time ago he can’t satisfy. And he’s come to be okay with that.</p><p>He and Victor hooked up once. Or, more accurately, tried. Two young athletes far from home, surrounded by competitors, coaches, fans, yet lonely as hell. It had been fumbling and awkward and…wrong. They’d wound up laughing until they’d cried, <em>really</em> cried some more, then simply curled up together, holding hands and talking long into the night. They’ve been friends ever since.</p><p>Best friends? Chris gives a mental shrug. As far as he knows, he’s the only one Victor opens up to, yet there’s something about the Russian that remains walled-off, impenetrable. A deep well of emptiness that will take someone special—and <em>very</em> brave—to unlock and fill. Chris is not that special. Or brave.</p><p>Chris finishes connecting his laptop to the giant, flat-screen TV at the foot of the bed. “Ready?”</p><p>Victor perks up, and nods. “Who’s first?”</p><p>Chris pulls up the video playlist he’s been building since the last time they sneaked out of the banquet at Worlds to do exactly this: scope out potential competition.</p><p>“First, we have a dark horse out of Kazakhstan, Otabek Altin. This is his junior-nationals-winning free skate.”</p><p>“<em>Kazakhstan</em>?” There’s disbelief rather than disdain in Victor’s chocolate-muffled voice.</p><p>“Don’t laugh, this guy has some serious chops.”</p><p>Victor isn’t laughing as he peers at the black-haired, steely-eyed young skater powering across the ice. “Rough technique, but he has presence.”</p><p>Chris nods in agreement, and they study a few more video clips of Altin before moving on.</p><p>“Here’s a Thai skater, Phichit Chulanont, training in Detroit with Celestino.”</p><p>Victor swallows his bite of chocolate with a sip of champagne. “I wasn’t aware Thailand even had any ice rinks.”</p><p>“If they don’t, they will soon. This kid is a few years away from seniors, but watch how he brings his country’s traditional dance into his programs.” </p><p>Chris monitors Victor’s expression as they move on down the playlist. There’s faint interest here and there, but no spark as they scroll through more than a dozen up-and-coming skaters. Only a slightly disgusted wrinkle of his nose at teen-aged Canadian Jean-Jacques Leroy's cheesy “JJ style” finger sign.</p><p>“If JJ-style means pre-rotating his quads and underrotating everything else, he’s got that down. More champagne?” Victor tops off both their glasses, clearly a little tipsy thanks to his ultra-low competition body fat.</p><p>Chris smiles to himself, taking the bottle and setting it out of Victor’s reach. Victor will thank him in the morning, and Lilia won't murder him. “Okay, pay attention to this next one. He’s got…oh, what's this doing here? That’s not...hold on.” He moves to click the next video, but Victor grabs his hand to stop him.</p><p>“Wait. Who’s that?”</p><p>Chris rolls his lips in against a knowing smirk. <em>A-ha. I knew it.</em></p><p>“Him?” He squints at the screen, pretending to be barely interested. “Yuuri Katsuki. I don’t know how this video got on my playlist. I must have clicked it by mistake.” He shrugs. “He was Japan's Junior champion, but his highest finish in the Junior GPF was fourth. This is his first year training with Celestino. He’s got a solid quad toe and <em>some</em> potential, I guess, but he lacks the killer instinct to deliver his peak performance at clutch time.”</p><p>Victor brushes Chris’s hands aside and pulls the computer into his own lap. “You know an awful lot about him for not putting him on the playlist,” he says absently, fingers flying over the keyboard as he types “Yuuri Katsuki” into the search bar. In short order, Victor is muttering things like <em>something compelling about his style, </em>and <em>Celestino is good but he’ll never bring out Katsuki’s best.</em></p><p>Chris sits back, grinning behind his wine glass as his friend stares avidly at the 18-year-old Japanese skater's fluid, poetic movement. Clearly enthralled, as well he should be. Every move of Katsuki’s lithe body is a love letter to Victor Nikiforov. As Victor’s eyes brighten and begin to sparkle, Chris has to tear his gaze away. He will not be jealous. He will <em>not</em>.</p><p>A noise pulls Chris's attention to the windows, where he finds fat snowflakes smacking against the panes. Odd. Snow hadn't been predicted for tonight. As he idly watches it swirling out of the dark to accumulate on the sill, he thinks he sees a glimpse of Victor’s future. Between the alcohol and his infamous forgetfulness, there’s a good chance he may not remember much of this night. But if the stars align—and Chris does his part to nudge the Russian in the right direction—two very special people could make magic on the ice.</p><p>Impulsively, he leans over and plants a soft kiss on Victor’s cheek. Victor spares him a smiling glance before his eyes are drawn like magnets back to the screen. “What was that for?”</p><p>Chris pours himself the last of the champagne and swallows it all in one go. “No reason.”</p><p>
 <em>No reason at all, mon amie. Just…happy birthday. And Joyeux Noël.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Blessings of the season to all the friends I've made in the fandom that's given me so much joy. I love you all.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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